Silent Hill: Broken Man
by Sahmanosuke
Summary: Ashfield Asylum. Samuel Oliver has sat there for years in the darkness, trying to convince himself that the things he had seen were not real. Until journalist David Brandon wants to interview him about the town he lived in before his confinement.


The dark halls echoed a soft clicking sound, the sound of loafers as they were slapped against the black and white tiled floors. The middle aged man glanced down at his suit and found the shoes to be slightly too large and the slacks that seemed just far too baggy for him. A deep brown leather belt was the only reason the pants didn't just fall around his ankles and expose his boxers.

It was embarrassing to think about.

Another man dressed in the gray of a security guard uniform stood from his desk at the end of the hall, stepping to the side and putting his hand upon the fencing. One panel of it was captured inside metal bars and locked hinging on the right side. With the jingle of a ring of keys, the guard pressed one into the lock and twisted, undoing the mechanism and tugging the door aside and open for the approaching man, "Here you are, Mr. Brandon."

"Thank you," Brandon said with a polite nod. "Would it bother them to get some light in here?"

"It makes the patients edgy. The dark calms them," The security guard spoke without turning his head towards Brandon, pressing the door back to the lock.

"How long have you been working here?" Brandon asked. He raised his hand and felt the metal of his simple wedding ring press against the fencing. Parts of the fence had turned brown from the air's moisture and heat that the place exhibited during the winter months.

"Two years. Most of the patients are fairly calm and easy to get along with, but those in this wing," The guard seemed to hesitate with his mouth open, "I guess you'll know in a minute. Anyway, my shift is almost up. The doctor is down the hall, waiting for you."

Brandon wanted to press the issue, but decided that some things were best explored on one's own.

"Mr. David Brandon?" A voice sounded from behind him, a female one at that.

Brandon turned around to have his eyes eased by the sight of a younger woman, perhaps in her twenties. Dr. Adele McGregor was a fairly attractive young woman of a slim figure, with light blue eyes and strawberry blonde hair that was naturally wavy, yet darker at the roots. His skin was so pale that spots of red seemed to almost ruin the light complexion.

"You certainly are older than you sounded over the phone, Mr. Brandon," Dr. McGregor stated with a slight smile.

"And you are a lot younger," Brandon countered politely. Although he held a smile, his feathers were ruffled by the woman's comment.

"Right this way sir," McGregor pointedly said, and turned with a soft twirl of her lab coat. She started to walk down the rows of shut doors, each marked with a number in the center as well as a barred view slot. The numbers began to rise, with odds to Brandon's left and evens to his right.

"Can you tell me anything about the patient I wanted to see?" Brandon started. He had a feeling that Ms. Adele and he would have enough time together for a short conversation and it would be important to pry as much direct information as he could from a professional. The opportunity might not arise again.

"I'm afraid I don't know enough about the man to really make a professional opinion on him. I only started about two weeks ago," she didn't even look back at him.

"Then how about an informal one based on how you feel towards him?" Brandon asked calmly.

"He scares the hell out of me."

The two walked the rest of the way in silence.

One flight of stairs and three doors down put Brandon and McGregor at the door of 205. There, an orderly was waiting for them with keys in his large hands. The man pressed his dark rimmed glasses to his forehead as he unlocked the door and cast one of the largest doses of light that the interior of the cell had seen for over three years.

"Just a minute," the orderly stated. He pressed the keys into his pocket as he entered and stepped behind the door, looking at a figure on the bed that Brandon couldn't see. "You have a visitor."

There was a soft shuffling of sheets as the orderly stepped back into the hall, a large hand clasped over the thin arm of a man wearing a straight jacket. The man's dark hair was kept short through the efforts of the staff of nurses, his eyes bagged as though sleep were a dream itself. Brandon could not see what color his pupils were as the man shut his eyes tightly against the fluorescent lights.

Together, the four walked to the end of the hall where a door with a window stood. Dr. McGregor opened it and politely held it while the orderly led the patient and Brandon into a small room with only two chairs and a table in it.

As the orderly arranged the captive man to have a seat in one of the simple wooden chairs, Brandon turned to McGregor. "How long will I have with him?"

"Samuel will need his medication in about an hour so about until then," the doctor explained. "If that's not enough time, then he will be available tomorrow if you can come earlier."

"That would be great," Brandon said without enthusiasm. Nine twenty in the morning was early for a man like him.

"Like I said over the phone, Mr. Brandon, do not incite him or in anyway pressure him. If he starts acting erratic, press the button underneath your side of the table. Samuel has been acting fairly well the last few months so we're leaving him without constraints on his arms," McGregor explained the rules of the visit. Brandon knew them all as it was not his first trip to Ashfield Asylum.

"I understand. Thank you doctor," Brandon said stepping away from the door as the orderly moved behind McGregor. The two stepped out and slammed the door, though Brandon could still see the lingering shadow of one of them through the distortions of the thick glass.

"Samuel Oliver?" Brandon started, wanting to know if he had this man's attention. He spoke as if he had rehearsed the entire opening statement all night. Taking slow steps, Brandon cornered the table and sat opposite of this thinned man, and with both hands on the top of it, sat down in his seat, never taking his eyes off of him.

Oliver did not look up. His eyes, the ocean dark blue, were kept on his opened hands as though he had not seen them unclothed since the day he was born. His head was bowed low, while his lips seemed to kiss outward, like he was constantly saying the vowel O.

Brandon reached into his black blazer to withdraw some papers that had been folded: Notes he had taken about the man's profile through previous news clippings and writing of his own on a small piece of loose leaf. His left hand, his dominant one, reached into the opposite pocket to fish a thick pen. However Brandon never took his eyes off the man the whole time, never wanting to miss a detail or hint, a clue of some kind. He already knew everything that was on those notes, but simply wanted them handy.

The words came out slow and methodical, "My name is David Brandon. I'm a journalist who is currently working to investigate events that circulate around people from the town of Si-"

"Don't say that name."

Brandon almost thought it wasn't Oliver who interrupted him, unable to see his lips. Oliver's head was lowered until all he could see was the top of his hair, "Please don't say that name."

Brandon sat there in silence as he watched Oliver who did not stir in the least. Slowly, he lowered the notes in his hands until the paper softly rubbed the table. Brandon spent a moment just watching the man's odd actions and stillness.

Finally, Brandon began again. "Before you were committed, what did you do?"

"I breathed. I ate food and drank water," his voice carried a slight country accent to it. It wasn't heavy, but it distinguished enough to notice.

The content of the words almost left Brandon laughing. He remembered a scene in Shakespeare's _Hamlet_, where the Prince of Denmark was asked what he reading, and the young man replied simply, 'Words, words, words'. Brandon fought his comical reaction down as he began to focus on Oliver again.

"I meant a job, Samuel."

"Please call me Sam," Oliver said. "My mother always called me Samuel when she was mad. It freaks me out sir."

"Alright Sam," Brandon put the new name to use immediately. He had to show the patient that he wanted to work with him, not against him.

"I worked on cars, a mechanic with my brother," Sam began. Brandon noticed that the presence of the accent was dwindling. Somewhere in the notes, Brandon remembered reading that Samuel Oliver moved to Silent Hill at a young age and probably lost his accent there. The earlier use of the accent was probably some regression, or simply the man trying to remember how to talk. Conversation was not part of the daily patient routines.

"Did you like it?" Brandon offered.

"It was alright," Sam raised his right hand and softly pressed it to his closed eye, rubbing it to remove some itch. He put the hand back on the table, next to his left one. "The pay was only okay, but I felt better when I saw how happy I made people when I fixed up their car."

"I wish I got that satisfaction," Brandon said with sarcasm. The pay was good, but he rarely met the people who read his writing. Often Brandon wondered if he made any difference. Brandon smiled despite the fact that Oliver never saw it.

The smile disappeared and Brandon let the moment drift in lull a moment, wanting the questions to sink in, the memories to come back. He stole a fast glance at his watch to see he still had about 53 minutes remaining. Finally, he continued.

"Sam, can you tell me what happened?"

Oliver was quiet and unmoving.

"Please? I need to know," Brandon asked.

Again, Oliver did nothing for a long moment. Like before, the moment lingered in silence until Oliver seemed to twitch slightly, and looked up with his neck still parallel the table. His eyes were pink with tears forming where the lids met the iris. Oliver drew a sharp breath through his nose that creaked of fresh mucus and watery salt.

"Why should I?"

Brandon didn't answer, simply letting the man's memories coerce him on the inside. Brandon bit his lip and hoped without ever saying a word.

"It's not like you would believe me anyway," Sam turned his head to his right, glancing down at the carpeted flooring. Slowly, his hands crept from the table to his arms, hugging his triceps tightly and stabbing his shoulder with his thumb.

"All the years, all I wanted to do was talk to someone about it I guess," Sam started. "I guess I figure, you want to know since you came here looking for me. No one wants to talk anymore. It was the one thing that my wife used to do all the time."

Brandon sat up, a little surprised. His notes omitted that this man ever had a significant other, "Your wife?"

Sam nodded, and slowly his mouth opened. His lips twitched, as his story began.


End file.
